


One Mile West of The Dreaming Sun

by slyfoxcub



Series: Constellations [1]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Philosophies, Canon-Typical Violence, Constantin is the Emperor's Humanity Chain, Contrived Lore Explanations, Eventual Young!Primarchs AU, Fluff, Gen, Gradual Canon Divergence, Questionable ethics, Unification Wars Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-13 11:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyfoxcub/pseuds/slyfoxcub
Summary: Five times Constantine Valdor asked the Emperor a question and one time he didn’t need to.
Relationships: Emperor of Mankind & Constantine Valdor, The Emperor of Mankind & The Primarchs
Series: Constellations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549192
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83





	1. Sunset

This high up, far above the clouds of smog, he can see the sunset. It is liquid gold and coral pink, bleeding into blue-black with waves of indigo and violet. 

Breathing deeper as if trying to literally drink in the sight, the cold and the altitude bother him not. Not anymore.

It had hurt; the procedure. But it had meant lungs that no longer struggled to draw a mortal breath and limbs that would never falter. It had meant being able to see this.

He would endure that pain a thousand times over for this.

For him.

He really should go back inside; he can already pick up on the distant voices asking of his whereabouts. But he is not ready. Not yet. Lifting up his hand, he stretches it towards the bleeding sun with fingers outspread. He can hold it in his hand. The rays play across his face and he closes his eyes to feel the fragile warmth carve his face apart.

“Here you are.”

The voice from down below his perch is at once familiar and different, but it glows in his bones all the same. Clambering down from the high crag more sure-footed than he has ever been, he lays eyes on the man who made him what he is.

A height of just over six feet makes his lord a tall man with a broad stature to match, but now Antin is a colossus of nine feet. He is most certainly not used to looking down on a great man he used to only be hip-high to. It is disconcerting.

“I thought I might find find you here.” The smile, however, is the same, as are the amber eyes and long dark hair.

“You promised me lungs and air for them to breathe, sir,” Antin replies. “I stayed for the sunset.”

“I have seen countless sunsets, and every one is priceless. Was it a good one?”

“It’s over, sir,” Antin states, glancing toward the last sliver of red slipping below the dark horizon. “But yes, it was.”

“You will see a thousand more, Antin, and a hundred-thousand beyond that. And those stars overhead are a thousand-thousand suns setting and rising on countless worlds. The sunset is never over.”

The quiet cracking of ice resettling pervades the darkening air, a silent dusting of snow settling on the jutting unhewn rock they stand upon.

“Sir...why me?” Antin asks. “A hundred-thousand sunsets gifted to a half-crippled barbarian child; why?” The question has weighed heavy on his mind for some time now. Maybe now he will have an answer.

“Because...You refused to let your body condemn you. You had faith in yourself and faith in humanity. You looked up at me and told me that this could not be mankind’s fate. Because your words mirrored what I had hoped for an age. I chose you, because you chose yourself.”

“I didn’t believe in myself, sir. I knew I was weak.”

A piercing eagle glare fixes him in place. “Belief and faith are different. Belief is a dream, a fantasy, and you are indeed a realist. Faith is an expectation founded on evidence. You saw proof of everything man had lost, and you have faith that we could reach those heights again. Just as I do.”

Antin takes a deep breath. “I might have faith sir, but despite the power at our disposal I think we’re going to need a lot more than three people.”

A gesture with a walking staff and Antin obeys, following his lord back into the massive hidden facility. “I agree, Antin. For millennia I have stood to the side, guiding humanity and it’s leaders with a gentle touch but allowing them to govern themselves. We rose high, higher than ever before, and then we fell. Evidently, I cannot remain gentle.”

They pass through a room Antin remembers well and at the sight he cannot help but flinch in memory of needles biting into his flesh. But it was worth it.    
The chamber beyond that holds what can only be described as an armour rack. Work tables are littered with servos and carbon-fibre synth-muscle and fine manipulation tools. The armour itself finds Antin lacking in words.

Eye lenses framed by the molded pinions of a great eagle stare questioningly at him. The same striking raptor is engraved on a convex breastplate flanked by massive pauldrons and bulky gauntlets.

“I had to take the whole thing apart just to get it working and many of the more fine-tuned internals still need to be completely redesigned from the ground up, but it should suffice for now,” his lord sighs. “Antin, the scattered tribes and kingdoms must be reunited under a single banner, a single vision. Will you stand by my side, help me show mankind a thousand-thousand sunsets?”

The answer is simple, but hearing his name spoken aloud makes Antin pause. “I am no longer the child I once was sir. I will follow you to the death, and beyond, but…” He kneels before his lord. “Please, give me a new name.”


	2. Bloodline

‘The bastard hybrid of a gun and a halberd’, Malcador had called the weapon, but spear was easier to say. A kill was a kill, anyway.

The power field around the blade had hummed, burning away the last remnants of ichor on it while the headless neck weakly bubbled blood where the strike had been too swift to fully cauterize it. 

This corpse was the first of the petty warlords to fall. He would not be the last. But it would be a statement of intent, a rallying point to which to gather warriors and stockpile resources.

“I shall mop up the stragglers; put them in order,” his lord had said. “You track down any of his officials; advisors, ministers, record keepers and the like. Take them alive if it is reasonably practical and guard them.”

Constantine had obeyed. The new scanners built into his helm meant that he would be able to do so efficiently, and he did. There were many fleeing, but nearly all were menials of no import. The few of value were knocked unconscious and dumped in a designated side room for ease of containment.

The last targets were travelling in a group, but that would merely make his job easier.

It was only when his scanner led him to a room containing only a desk and wall furnishings that he took pause. Then he saw it.

The tapestry and the door it concealed were blasted apart with his Guardian Spear and he descended down the hidden staircase. He could smell his quarry now; sweat and adrenaline. He could hear them; ragged breathing, frightened whimpers and-

He caught up with them as the stairway opened up into a large hallway, a blast from the barrel of his Spear collapsing the far exit.

Now, he held two captives in his grip as he strode back into the throne room. 

A woman, belly with the slight curve of pregnancy’s early stages, shaking feebly with mute hysteria and tear-stained eyes. Constantine carried her cradled in one arm, mindful of her condition. A young boy of no more than six years was tucked beneath his other arm, silent with dread but clawing ineffectually at the bodysuit beneath Constantine’s armour joints.

The warlord’s family.

Constantine’s lord took in the situation at a glance. “I see.”

Heeding the silent command, Constantine deposits the two as gently as possible, and steps back as his lord speaks to them.   
Despite not being the one addressed, he cannot help but hang on every word, thanks to the sheer grace and charisma being exuded. It calls to something in his very soul, and the immensity of his lord’s presence overwhelms him like standing at the base of a mountain.

The two mortals soon see the truth of the matter; the woman will remain free and unharmed along with her unborn child and be employed as a record keeper for Malcador. The child, however...

  
  


It takes a week for the boy to go through the Procedure. It had taken Constantin three weeks. He sits and waits for the boy, now a warrior like him, to awaken.

In the meantime, mercenaries and fighters had slowly started gathering towards his lord’s banner. Those would go through a similar process, though less intensive to compensate for adult bodies.

Cold reason dictates that Constantine is a prototype and will be superceded in due course.

“What am I to you, sir?” He asks.

His lord looks at him, eyes running him through and skimming his thoughts. “Constantine...You are irreplaceable to me.”

A tanned hand, small in his golden armoured one. “You are not to be repeated, or forgotten. You have no price.”

In response, Constantine can only tilt his head to the table where the newest addition to the cause lies insensate. 

“He is not you, and never will be.” A deep sigh. “Constantine, you died on that table. That’s why it took longer for you. You died several times. I didn’t give up on you, though.” The beginnings of a soft smile. “I think I put more of my power into you than I meant to, bringing you back. You were reborn from my own flesh and spirit, my friend. You are the closest thing to blood kin that I have.”

Constantine chokes on his own breath. He falls to one knee. “I...my lord, I…’”

His stuttering ceases abruptly as a hand grasps his shoulder and bodily hauls him to his feet. His lord has transformed himself, now a head taller than Constantine and with power shining through his eyes.   
“Rise, my faithful Companion; you do not bow to me, not ever. Stand tall, Constantine. Now, attend to our newest addition; he wakes. Do not begrudge him this. He is now your brother by blood, but you share my soul. I know you will carry it well.”

The light fades from his eyes, but his size does not diminish. “Excuse me, my friend, but Malcador is calling me most insistently. I shall return presently.”

Constantine returns to the side of his new brother, thoughts awhirl in confusion. A low groan helps him focus on his task. “Slowly, young one,” he urges as the man pulls himself upright. “You body is built for this, but it is unused to such things. I shall be here to guide you.”

“You!” The tone is groggy, but accusing. “You were…’”

“Following my orders.” Constantine cuts him off. “I do not regret it. But that was then, and this is now. Now, you are my brother and a guardian and warrior of our liege lord.” He reached over and tapped the bare chest, just over the hearts. “The child you were is no more. You, are nameless. A name must be earned, young one. Keep up with me, and you might just get one.”


	3. Silence

Malcador travels for some time, and when he returns he brings a motley collection of people, mostly women, trailing in his wake.

Everybody dislikes them.

The newly-christened Thunder Warriors pick countless fights for Constantine and Ra to break up. The average humans either shy away or murmur insults out of earshot.  
Constantine’s stomach tightens whenever he crosses paths with one, and he finds himself wrapping his hands ever more tightly around his Guardian Spear.

They are civilians, the majority half-starved and several afflicted with immune system damage and malnutrition, a few with still-healing injuries. They are under the aegis of Malcador and by extension, Constantine’s own lord.  
‘They are safe and harmless’, he tells himself and Ra, constantly. It doesn’t work.

“What are they?” What, not who. It is not their backgrounds he wishes to know. “There is something about them, something...unnerving. They are causing dissension in their wake without even realising.”

“They are a rare breed, my friend, a talent I wish to put to use.”

“That is not an answer, my lord,” Constantine retorts. “I wish to resolve these problems, not brush them to the side.” His hearts quiver at his decision to defy his lord, but he will not be denied.  
His lord has been cloistered away for days on end, letting no one enter the innermost chambers. Maybe he yet knows of the situation, maybe he does not, but Constantine’s nerves are fraying and sore and this is important.  
Something ebbs and Constantine blinks and suddenly his lord looks tired. Drained.  
He does not like it.

“This is not an easy thing for me to speak of, Constantine. Know that I trust you, but I fear to cause you harm with this knowledge.”  
There is not much Constantine can say to that. But he feels much. Concern. Pride. Love. He would gladly face this threat with his lord by his side, if only he were allowed.

His silence seems answer enough.

“Souls burn bright, my friend, they are the imprint of the mind and heart. But when the body dies, they have no place in the material world. The Immaterium is their home. It used to be a tranquil place, but it changed. Now it is a twisted, warped mirror, magnifying the darker aspects of every soul. Four gestalt entities of that darkness now rule that place with their fickle whims and cruel games. If they focus enough, they can exert some influence over the material realm. The mere knowledge of their existence draws their attention and Psykers drawing power from that realm especially so. Do you see now this burden I place upon your shoulders, Constantine?”

His mind struggles at the revelation. For so long his world had been the Unification of Terra, the journey to the stars. Now he learns of things beyond reality, of malevolence birthed from the shadow of the very souls they wish to save. He is only sure of one thing.  
“I will carry any burden you ask of me and defy any who wish you harm; I am yours and you are mine. That has not changed, my lord. But what of these people Malcador brought? What purpose are they to serve?”

A low, strained chuckle, and his lord lowers his head so that they briefly touch foreheads. So simple, yet the gesture takes Constantine’s breath away.   
“Dearest friend. What did I ever do to deserve you? No matter; they are called Blanks, sometimes Untouchables, or Pariahs. They have souls, but the Immaterium cannot touch them, or feed off them. They repel Psykers and their powers with their very presence. They are cold, stillness, silence incarnate. Even non-Psykers balk at them.”

It is easy for Constantine to see the connection.

“You wish to prevent the Immaterial beings from disrupting your plans. But you are a Psyker, my lord. Will these Blanks not harm you or your powers? And, forgive me for suggesting it, how have you not lost yourself in the Immaterium before now?”

“There is a way to...separate one’s soul from the influence of the four Ruinous Powers.” A raised hand forestalls Constantine’s next questions. “And no, I cannot say it; the knowledge of it can condemn they who seek it to never obtain it. And yes, a Blank would distract me, but I can push through with enough power.”

“Will the younger Blanks become Custodes?”

A head shake. “No; it would not work. They shall be a separate force, supporting you and your brothers. Once they are well, of course. Psychic healing cannot hasten the process. Malcador suggests the name of ‘Silent Ones’.”

Constantine approves. However...“There is still the matter of the Thunder Warriors, my lord. Given the nature of a Blank, I accept that some malcontent is unavoidable. But they are being unusually aggressive, even to the point of attacking myself and Ra when we intervene.”

His lord’s brow furrows in grief and consternation. “I see. The process is most certainly not perfect and I expected some aggression issues in the outliers, but until I-”

“It is worse, my lord.” Hesitating in silent apology for a second, then Constantine plows on. “I enlisted a few of the servants to watch and listen, and I fear that some of the Thunder Warriors are beginning to experience drastic mental degradation. Berserker rages that cannot be broken, nervous tics, forgetting names and faces, sudden bouts of dissociation.” He takes a deep breath. “I do not mean to criticise your work, but something needs to be done.”


	4. Strike

Eyes rolling wildly and unseeing, spittle and blood flying from a bitten tongue in silent, meaningless fury.

There is nothing human left in those features.

Constantine stamps down, crushing the gullet, windpipe and spinal cord before disintegrating the entire head with his Spear.

The other Thunder Warriors almost infinitesimally huddle closer to each other, staring down at their dead comrade and avoiding meeting Constantine’s gaze as it sweeps over the group.

A regiment of Astartes stands equally still, save for one bearing the white double helix of the medically trained working on the twitching, prone form of one of his brothers, the clicks of a shared vox-channel passing between the two.

The Thunder Warriors are growing more unstable by the week, some of them by the day, and this is the last straw.

Constantine is biased, he knows, as he prefers any Astartes over a Thunder Warrior. Maybe it’s the fact that the Astartes share the genes of his liege, albeit filtered and diluted, rather than straight enhancements like the Thunders. Family is important, after all.    
Or maybe it’s that even the saner Thunders are content to wallow in their own savagery, seeking only the next battle rather than developing themselves.

“Attempted murder of your own comrades is treason!” Constantine bellows at the Thunder Warriors, his vocaliser distorting it into a fluid snarl. “I care not if you understand my words, so let this be a lesson on what happens to traitors! Now disperse!”

They flee, more than anything. Absently, Constantine notes that no groups or pairs are formed as they leave. They have no lives, no interests outside of war.

He turns to the Astartes, the numerals for Nineteen emblazoned on their pauldrons. He kneels down beside the injured one and the attendant Apothecary. “How is he?”

“Sir. Armour absorbed most of the blow, major internal bruising, some minor internal bleeding and a fracture on the lower rib plating only. He’ll be back at full capacity in two days, at worst estimate. No comment on the power armour though, sir.”

Constantine nods. “Good.” Then, after a thought, pats the Apothecary lightly on the pauldron as he rises back to his feet. “You do your brothers proud. You all did well this battle; now rest and see to your wounds and weapons. Dismissed!”

The Astartes do go off in groups and pairs, chattering lowly among themselves, the more experienced among them offering advice to the youngest and the more enthusiastic relating key battle highlights for the entertainment of their fellows.

The human dropship pilots also take their leave, heading to the extremities of the hangar where the locker rooms and showers lie.

Satisfied that everything is in order, Constantine unerringly picks his way through corridors and elevators. Several humans point and whisper in awe when they think he is out of earshot, but no one barrs his way. Even the occasional Sister of Silence he crosses paths with nod in respect.

He feels himself relaxing as he passes certain points, until finally he is waved through a gold-inlaid door guarded by two of his fellow Custodes.

“My lord, there was another incident with the Thunder Warriors and Astartes. Unprovoked, this time. The perpetrator was completely feral and I had to put him down on the spot. As a whole, they don’t have long left before they’re no more than animals; the Arch-genetors confirm it. What is your will, my lord?”

Beckoning him forward, his lord silently bids him sit and pours them both cups of tea from the steaming pot and tea-set upon a low table. “One moment, my friend. What of the Astartes? How are they faring.”

Removing his helm and taking a tentative sip of the hot tea, Constantine takes the opportunity to compose his response.

“This latest engagement was with the Nineteens, but I’ll have the other Custodes send in their own findings. They learn fast, evolving their combat doctrine to a form that serves them most effectively as a Legion and teaching it to their younger recruits. The Nineteens in particular favour stealth and ambush. They also bond with each other and a few with their human colleagues, unlike the Thunders.”

Another sip.

“Genetic defects are minimal or purely cosmetic for the majority of the twenty strains, though I hear that the Threes and Fifteens are experiencing rampant malignant tumours and mutations, respectively. It would be prudent to eliminate both strains-”

“Absolutely not.” His lord cuts him off with certainty like an axe blow. “They can still be salvaged, I am sure of it. I am working on something that shall propell the Crusade across the galaxy, and the Astartes are an integral part of it.”

Bowing his head in acknowledgment, Constantine briefly considers that his lord has been working on something in secret for a long time now. The same thing, he is sure of it. He doesn’t like that it leaves his liege so drained, but he trusts him to know his own limits. That Malcador does not seem worried is further assurance.

“Of course, my lord. But what of the Thunder Warriors?”

Silence, as his lord leans forward and contemplates with chin in hands, broken only by the soft ticking of the rare pendulum clock in the corner of the room. Constantine sips his tea and waits.

He waits.

“There is one last stronghold left to conquer, is there not? Remind me what plans we have in place for the assault.”

Constantine replaces his helm and consults it’s internal display to find his itinerary. “Uhh...Astartes Strain Four will initiate an open testing of the defences with Twos providing cover and taking out all possible anti-aircraft weaponry. Fourteens flank the defences and open previously noted weak points, allowing the Twelves to mount a striking assault and carry a contingent of Sisters of Silence with them to nullify psychic counter-attacks and traps-”

“Cancel it.”

“What? My lord-”

“Replace the Astartes with Thunder Warrior Regiments. Send in the Sisters, but let the Thunder Warriors do all the heavy work. We can send in Astartes as a second wave to mop up any remainders.”

Everything falls into place. “A suicide mission,” Constantine breathes.

His lord rubs his eyes with a quiet groan, before leaning back in his chair. “The Astartes have a future ahead of them. But the Thunder Warriors do not. Their whole life is for battle, and they can end it that way. Besides, it would be disrespectful to their years of service to simply shoot them like rabid dogs or lock them away to rot.”

Regretfully, Constantine casts his mind to the nominal commander of the Thunders, Arik Taranis. “Do you think Arik will go along with it, my lord?”

The reply is spoken softly, almost tenderly. “I think he’d welcome it. He knows he is degrading and he fears being culled in anonymity. To go out in a blaze of glory against overwhelming odds and for the betterment of mankind, a glorious martyr in the annals of history? That is far more fitting.”


	5. Eclipse

“Brother!”

Constantine turns, seeing Ra half-raise a hand in greeting before joining him at his side. “My congratulations, young one.”

“Hah!” The light-hearted taunt is waved away. “You might be the First and Favoured, but we’re the same age, Constantine. You can’t call me ‘young one’ anymore.”

Sighing at the forwardness of his gene-brother, Constantine delivers a firm poke to the wider joints under Ra’s arm. “We both earned a Name for this, young one. And as long as I can still thrash you in a spar, you are still ‘young one’.” He smiled, not that Ra would see it, under the helmet. “Be thankful; Aquillon, Kadai, Jasac and Rassen only just earned their Names. I address them as ‘children’.”

The mood sombers as Ra tilts his helm just so, so as to convey an inquisitive tone. “Constantine. I came here to tell you, since your vox was damaged. Jasac is dead, along with a squad of Thirteens, succumbed to their...wounds.”

A lance of pain sears through Constantine’s hearts. “How?” He demands urgently. “Custodes do not die easily and from what I could hear over my vox before it was destroyed, he was fine all the way through the battle! He was granted a Name!”

“One of the traps, a gas, got through a minor breach in his armour. It wasn’t a toxin or an acid; it was a mutagenic. It took a long time to integrate into his system, long enough for the battle to end and then...and then he…” Ra heaves a panicked sigh. “He died quickly. We didn’t let any of them suffer.”

It’s a comfort. A small one, but still. He will miss Jasac, but overshadowing that is the bitter gall, that someone could set such a heinous device. Why would they fight back, why would they resist the chance to use their skills for the benefit of all mankind? But then, what could he expect from the same people who returned an ambassador as a still-screaming puddle of flesh. Sometimes, he regrets having an eidetic memory.

Regardless, the Lunarian gene-cults were broken and the facilities under the control of his lord. His lord must have a greater plan in mind, given that he had already fortified one of the innermost laboratories and hidden himself and a heavily-armoured container inside. Jasac and those Thirteens did not die in vain, Constantine was as sure of it as the sunset.

“I never thought that Terra could look so small,” Ra mused, looking out through the observation window at the sphere of rusted gold and grey hanging in the void. “Don’t you think it’s kind of beautiful?”

“Malcador said that it used to be blue and green, from all the oceans and forests,” Constantine countered. “Though I won’t deny that it has a certain elegance. We’re one step closer to achieving our goal.”

“What was the purpose of this all, though?” Ra waved a hand at the expanse of grey plains and mountains outside. “The Astartes are stable and refined, more so than the Thunder Warriors were, for all that they are smaller. We need more of them for the Crusade, yes, but why not build more facilities on Terra itself? There has to be something more.” A pause. “You should ask.”

“What?”

An irritable huff. “Come on, brother; our lord trusts you more than anyone, save perhaps Malcador. I don’t know why, but he talks to you, oh First and Favoured. I’m sure he’d answer anything you asked him.”

“Ra, don’t call me that; I didn’t do anything special to deserve it. Besides, he is working alone in one of the gene labs.”

“He didn’t say he wasn’t to be disturbed though. He’s been in there a while as well, so he’s probably finished, or nearly finished.” Ra pauses. “Come to think of it, actually, how long has it been since he slept? Or ate?”

Struck by the realisation, Constantine mentally counts the days and turns on his heel. “Ra, you keep an eye on the others. I need to talk.”

He hurries.

The door to the gene-lab is air-tight, but that doesn’t stop the bright golden light from shining through the seams.

He knocks.

He hammers.

He hears a bellow of pain and he pushes, the doors grind open-

L

I

G

H

T

* * *

“-ine!”

“Constantine!”

With a groan, Constantine comes round, to the sight of his lord’s haggard and exhausted features bathed in a ghostly teal light. Smaller than last time he saw him too; his lord has shrunk down to normal size again.

Then the pain kicks in.

But his lord is saying something, so he fights through it.

“-stantine, you damned fool, I could have lost you! I’ve already lost Jasac, and you too is unacceptable, you hear me?!”

Lungs scream in protest. “S’ry...sir…’” 

Dimly, he hears a hiss of escaping air and the soft pops of his carapace disconnecting, before an awful weight is removed from his chest and shoulders and the agony ebbs. Things swim into focus.

He’s sitting upright, propped up against some sort of generator, if the throbbing hum at his back is any indication. His helm is removed, along with several other large pieces of his armour and, judging from the look of it lying on the floor in front of him, it might as well be useless slag entirely.

The greenish light is not his vision failing, but illuminated tanks filled with fluid and each housing a small dark shape. The liquid is thick and viscous, slow and sinuous streams of air bubbles trailing upwards, and giving the white lights set in the base and roof their eerie tint.

He feels a small hand cup his jaw and his suddenly heavy eyelids flutter closed. “What were you thinking, Constantine?”

He forces his eyes back open, blinking hard to keep himself awake. “Came...to check on you...sir. Heard screaming so I...I forced my way in.” A rush of adrenalines as his body begins the process of repairing itself, kicks in. The lessening of the ache in his breathing helps too. “Forgive me...uh, what hit me sir?”

“You were exposed to the concentration of all my psychic energy, if it weren’t for your armour and that we are already connected, you would have been torched completely. Fool.”

Torched?

Screaming. He had heard screaming.

Struck with terror, Constantine jerked into full wakefulness, scrabbling to grip his Spear. “My lord! Are you injured at all? What were you doing?”  
What would necessitate his lord’s full, raw power?

His lord clambered to his feet, leaning heavily on the generator as he did so and gesturing to the tanks. “My greatest creations, Constantine. Twenty genetic strains of Astartes, perfected from beings cultivated from the cells of blastocyst embryos created from my own flesh and, finally, infused with my spiritual template.”

By this point, Constantine had climbed to his own feet.

“Behold, my friend, the Primarchs of the Legiones Astartes and my sons in blood and soul. Your twenty younger brothers.”

Brothers. He had used the term brothers.

Constantine felt his throat seize and burning tears trickle down his face.


	6. Failsafe

The lights are out and every so often a broken circuit will fizz sparks onto the scorched floor.

The twenty pedestals are empty, the gestation capsules that held the infant Primarchs in their final stage of growth seized and vanished.

The Gellar field generator lies shattered.

Constantine stands amid the wreckage, numb with shock.

“They are not dead.”

Snapping to attention, Constantine turns back to his lord, who is hunched over one of the cogitators.

His lord extrapolates without prompting; “I would know. Besides, my soul is anathema to the Ruinous Powers and bathed in it as my sons are, they would not be able to kill them. Cast them into danger though, that is a near-certainty.” He sighs.

Constantine’s hopes had risen, before plunging straight back down again. Wild animals, malicious xenos, violent weather...there was much that would kill the infants if given the chance and that was if they landed on a habitable planet to begin with.

“I put in a failsafe,” his lord added, as if reading his mind. “I wanted to raise them, have them grow naturally, but I knew that Chaos would do what they could to foil any plans I made. They would like nothing better than to see me holding nought but ashes.   
So, if the capsule is damaged, or I am not in the immediate vicinity when it opens…’” a deep breath, “they will grow fast, assimilate all knowledge they can find, fight viciously to protect themselves and what they see as theirs. Within three Terran standard years, they will be the height of a grown man and intelligence to eclipse one.”

“Adulthood in three years?” Constantine muses. Something in him is pained at the thought of not seeing them grow up. He rages at the Ruinous Powers, who deny humanity it’s hope. Who deny children their innocence.

“I said the height of a grown man, not that they would be grown. Restricting their immediate growth to a normal human’s will help them hide among any colonised or civilised world they might encounter. But they will still be children. Intelligent, powerful children, but children nonetheless. With the fears and hopes and dreams and ruthless determination that all children possess.”

His lord rises to his feet and begins walking out of the laboratory with promised retribution in his stride, Constantine following a pace to the right and half a step behind. “Only once I have found them and disabled that piece of genetic programming, will they begin to mentally mature and physically grow once more, at a normal rate. I imagine that at full height, they will be as tall as you or myself, Constantine.”

Together, they emerge into a grand observatory set directly onto the moon's surface. Terra hangs in the void, trailing a veil of stars millions of years away. Sol burns above them, glinting off of a tiny steel plaque bolted onto a small pedestal of lunar stone. It is scratched and aged by solar winds that blew long before the facility itself was erected, but the ancient script 'for all mankind' can still be made out.

“We will find your brothers; my sons. We will take the Astartes across the galaxy to find their gene-fathers. Human soldiers will follow in our footsteps as a mighty wave that destroys all who would bring fear. This is Unity, Constantine. Mortal and transhuman and Primarch as brothers in humanity, bringing light and hope to every star and every world.”

A faint feeling of joy reverberates through Constantine’s bones. “There is hope.” It is not a question.


End file.
